The Heiress Who Bankrupted Her Family Chapter 1

Astrologers and fortune tellers always told me I was born under a golden star—cursed with luck, blessed with wealth.

Raised in an orphanage, I was claimed by two separate billionaire dynasties before I turned twenty.

When the fake daughter of the first family tried to play the martyr, weeping about her poverty, I walked away with a penthouse suite, a fifty-one percent stake in the empire, and a smile on my face.

When the fake daughter of the second family staged a tragic sob story, begging for pity, I smiled again as I cleaned out her offshore accounts, grabbed her multi-billion-dollar trust fund, and left her with nothing.

Both times, I walked away unscathed, leaving a trail of ruined fake heiresses behind bars.

Then came the third DNA test. It turned out I was the long-lost biological daughter of the richest family on the East Coast: the Whitmores.

On my very first day stepping into their Fifth Avenue mansion, a girl in a white silk dress collapsed before me, clutching an oxygen tank.

"Sister," she wheezed, her voice raspy and fragile, "I'm so sick... I don't have much time left. I’ve cost Mom and Dad millions just keeping me alive."

"I feel so guilty," she wept, looking up with wide, tear-filled eyes. "If my presence disgusts you, I’ll stop taking my medicine right now. I’ll just die."

My biological mother broke down instantly, wrapping her arms around the girl, sobbing until her entire body shook.

My newly discovered older brother slammed his teacup onto the marble table, pointing an accusing finger at my face. "She's suffered from severe asthma her whole life! You walked through the front door five minutes ago, and you're already tormenting her?"

Even my so-called aristocratic fiancé stood in the archway, his eyes cold as ice. "I see what kind of upbringing you had. If Giselle sheds a single tear because of you, consider our families' arrangement dead."

My expression didn't shift. I walked over, knelt beside the girl, and gently wiped a tear from her cheek.

Then I leaned in and whispered softly in her ear.

"Don't be afraid, little sister. I won't kick you out."

"After all..."

"Out of all the fake daughters I've destroyed, your game is by far the weakest."

……

* * *

"Sister... what... what are you talking about..."

Giselle Whitmore’s face, already pale, lost whatever color it had left. Even her lips turned stark, ghostly white.

Her delicate, manicured fingers clawed at the chest of her white dress. A dry, rattling wheeze tore through her throat, echoing like an old bellows.

"I only... I only felt like I owed you..." she stammered, swaying dangerously. "Why are you threatening me like this..."

She wobbled twice, her body giving out like a kite with a severed string as she collapsed backward.

Vera Whitmore let out a blood-curdling shriek, lunging forward to catch the girl in her arms.

"Giselle! Giselle, look at me! Deep breaths! Where's her inhaler? Someone get her medicine!"

In an instant, the grand foyer of the Whitmore estate devolved into pure chaos.

Uniformed staff scrambled in every direction—some rushing with glasses of water, others tearing through leather bags for emergency medication. Vera, my biological mother, knelt on the hand-woven Persian rug, her tears raining down onto Giselle’s face as she sobbed uncontrollably.

My big brother, Malcolm Whitmore, barked orders at the butler with icy efficiency, demanding the personal physician be summoned immediately.

And I simply stood there.

Silent. Still.

I watched this collection of polished, high-society elites turn upside down over a masterclass in faked respiratory distress.

Honestly, the scene felt exhausting in its familiarity.

When I was sixteen, the ultra-wealthy DeWitt family claimed me as their long-lost child. Their fake heiress, Brianna, pulled the exact same trick—crying about her tragic soul, claiming she was ready to walk away with nothing. I didn't waste my breath. I smiled, brought in my legal team, and liquidated her luxury properties and corporate shares on the spot.

When I was eighteen, the Kenneth dynasty found me. Their fake daughter, Nicolette, slit her wrists in front of me, sobbing that she wasn't worthy of the Kenneth name. I smiled through that too, walking away with her unlimited black cards and the family’s multi-billion-dollar dowry fund.

Now I was twenty.

A third DNA match brought me back to the Whitmores, supposed kings of Wall Street.

And here was Giselle Whitmore. She didn't even have the guts to fake a wrist-slitting. All she had were a few shallow wheezes, relying on weaponized guilt to cement her status as the delicate victim in this house.

"How utterly uninspired."

"Cassandra."

Malcolm’s deep, measured voice cut through the noise.

He walked over, stopping three paces away. His gaze was sharp, analytical, and almost sociopathically calm as he stared down at me.

"The family doctor will be here in five minutes," he said, adjusting his rimless glasses. His tone was perfectly composed, yet every word carried a razor-sharp edge. "If anything happens to Giselle, you won't be able to pay the price."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the grand hall.

"I understand you've spent twenty years living a hard, uncultured life on the streets. I know you harbor resentment," he continued softly. "But Giselle’s illness is real. Her desire to give you back your place in this family is real too."

"Using malicious words to provoke a dying girl shows a severe lack of grace and upbringing. I won't hold your background against you."

"But the Whitmore family will not tolerate cruel, bottomless malice."

"What a brilliant, rational older brother."

No screaming. No unseemly shouting. He used the most polite, refined vocabulary imaginable to pin me to the wall as a cold-hearted, uneducated monster.

Beside him stood Brandon Ross—heir to the Ross fortune, Titan of Manhattan real estate, and my designated fiancé.

He looked down at me from his towering height, his expression filled with revulsion, as if looking at something scraped off the bottom of his shoe.

"Miss Whitmore," Brandon said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Giselle stayed up all night personally arranging orchids to welcome you home. She nearly triggered an asthma attack just trying to make this house perfect for you."

"And the moment you step through the door, this is how you treat her?"

"I actually held out a sliver of hope for this arranged marriage," he scoffed, shaking his head. "Now I see you don't hold a candle to a single hair on Giselle's head."

"If you don't apologize to her right now..." Brandon lowered his tone, the threat clear and absolute, "...the Ross family will publicly terminate our engagement by tomorrow morning."

I looked at his pompous, overly symmetrical face and felt an overwhelming urge to laugh.

"Cancel the engagement?"

My second adoptive father, Patriarch Kenneth, had turned down a proposal from European royalty on my behalf just last month.

What the hell was a mid-tier Manhattan real estate heir supposed to mean to me?

Still, I didn't argue.

I reached into my designer handbag, pulled out a wet wipe, and slowly, meticulously sanitized the fingers that had just touched Giselle’s face.

"Mr. Ross," I said, lifting my eyes to meet his gaze with unbothered calm.

"Since your heart bleeds for her so deeply, feel free to run the cancellation notice in the "New York Times" tomorrow."

I tossed the used wipe into a bronze trash can twenty feet away. Perfect bullseye.

"Oh, and a quick medical observation," I added, turning my gaze back to the floor.

"Giselle's respiratory rate just now was twenty-four breaths per minute, with zero signs of cyanosis or lip discoloration."

I met the eyes of the girl lying in Vera's arms. Giselle instantly froze.

"If that's an asthma attack," I smiled, "I suggest the Whitmores fire your doctor. Because she can't even fake an illness with convincing metrics."